


Breath, Like A White Cloud

by soncnica



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of a Case, Brothers, Case Fic, Childhood Memories, Comforting Dean Winchester, Crying Sam Winchester, Cursed Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester Hates Witches, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mild Blood, Panic, Past Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester, Post-Stanford Era (Supernatural), Protective Dean Winchester, Season/Series 01, Smart Sam Winchester, Witch Curses, Witches, Worried Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:49:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24036913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soncnica/pseuds/soncnica
Summary: This wasn't how he was supposed to have spend this day. He was supposed to have spend it with Jess and his friends, not gasping for breath with his brother being the only comfort he had. Darn witches.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 37





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: I own nothing and I'm sorry for any grammar/spelling mistakes you might find.  
> Story 1st written -> Dec 31, 2013

Sam pulled the heavy drapes apart and looked outside. The snow that was supposed to fall in the morning was hours late and the sky was cloudy and gray, snow just a little bit out of reach, just sitting there at the tip of the sky, but not falling yet.

They were able to smell the snow in the air when they went out to get some lunch and a six pack, but there were no snowflakes in site and according to the sky, there would be no snowflakes in site for some time, while according to the skinny brunette doing the weather forecast on the local TV station, the snow was supposed to already be falling and the little town they were stuck in was supposed to already be in a major snow storm.

But … no snow. Anywhere. The streets were wet from some rain that fell when they were driving into town and to the motel, but that was all.

It was a bit … dull actually. It was all just so … gray and ugly and boring and depressing. Snow would pretty this place up, Sam thought as his eyes roamed the parking lot and the road behind it.

There were some cars driving real slow and real careful on the road; people going home to their families, to their tables shaking under the weight of all the holiday food. Potatoes, vegetables, salads, meat, gravy, cakes and pies.

He was supposed to … Jess was gonna do some fancy dinner, make some of her chocolate chip cookies, and then they'd probably snuggle up on the couch for a while, then go out to a party, watch the fireworks … kiss … and go home and kiss some more.

He'd hold her and she'd hold him and … the new year would feel magical – not the bad kinda magical - and brand new, hope for days full of _them_ and maybe the new year would be the year he'd say – marry me.

He swallowed down the lump of nevergonnahappen, sighed and let the drape fall into place, hiding the world outside from him, and getting him stuck in the motel room of horrors.

It wasn't that bad, he'd seen worse, but it was – faded. Everything was brown wood, white sheets over two small beds, a kitchenette with one counter, a mini fridge and a rusty sink.

He wasn't supposed to spend this day like this.

There were no chocolate chip cookies, no fancy dinner planned, there was just some pizza, two cold burgers in a greasy brown bag and a six pack, minus two beers. So a four pack.

He wanted a glass of champagne. Jess would have had some hidden away, just for today.

"Sam?"

His brother's voice dragged him out of his wants and wishes, and put him on solid ground.

They were in this town to do a job and he couldn't believe that he was back in this again. That he was back in the no holidays zone, no celebrations zone. Just kill, kill, kill. Save people, but who was gonna save him?

"Yeah?"

"You okay?"

It was sincere. The question. His brother knew him well, there were no walls Dean couldn't penetrate, but for old time's sakes, he lied.

"Yeah, 'm okay."

"You sure?"

Dean could always see right through him, but lying was telling the truth in some bizarre way they had between them. Okay, meant not really, and not really meant, I will be.

"'m sure."

"Well, alrighty then."

His brother was sitting on his pristine white bed, getting dressed. It looked comical and he'd laugh, if laughing wouldn't make him sob afterwards.

He couldn't believe that he was watching his brother getting dressed in ratty jeans and three days past laundry day shirt.

He was supposed to watch Jess getting dressed – well – undressed from a dress she had bought in September, with just this day in mind.

He shook his head and looked down at the wooden floor.

He had to pull it together, had to suck it up.

He cleared his throat: "So, uhh, you wanna tackle this now?"

He really, really didn't want to leave the warm room; the room that smelled of coffee they both chugged down like it was water, grease from their dinner and maybe some sweaty socks and sweaty shirts, but … it was warm. And outside it was freezing. Sure there was no snow, but the wind was bitter and cold and stung like little icicles were being slammed into his skin.

He didn't want to spend the night outside. He really didn't and call him a selfish bastard, but … he wanted to spend the afternoon and night in the room, with his brother, watching some TV, drinking some beer and eating some cold pizza and cold burgers.

He wanted … normal of _their_ kind.

Because he couldn't get normal of _his_ kind. He couldn't get a warm apartment decorated in his and Jess' taste, couldn't get the smell of Jess' cooking, her perfume when she'd squeeze next to him on the couch, couldn't get that warm feeling that always spread through his chest when Jess said 'I love you' and kissed him hard, couldn't get a Christmas tree with all the lights and ornaments that he and Jess would've put up, couldn't get the smell of punch and eggnog that would spread through an apartment illuminated only by the Christmas lights.

"Yeah now."

But his brother was as pig-headed as ever; once Dean got something stuck in his head … it really got stuck in there until Dean could shot, blown or punch away … something. Monsters and shit like that. Or beer cans. That worked too.

"Okay, let's go do this then."

He walked to his bed and flopped down on it. He really didn't want to go out there, into that cold and into that icy wind that was blowing so hard it rattled the trash cans. Because this was what he got away from, for some time, and now it was back and … even on this day, monsters knew no rest.

"Great. And then, we'll come back, get stinkin' drunk and sleep until noon. How's that for a plan?"

He smiled. He liked that plan. He liked it a lot, because _that_ was something he wanted, needed. Just a day to spend with his big brother. Because that was all he had now. Jess was – gone – their dad was – missing – but Dean, Dean was here all the time and he was always the only one that was always there, every holiday, every birthday, every ordinary day.

Dean.

But he was no Jess. No one would ever be Jess.

He sighed.

"Sam, I know this isn't your idea of a great time, but man up and stop sulking. Did Stanford really made you forget what we do? Did it really make you that soft?"

He gulped. No, Stanford didn't make him forget anything. How could one forget what his childhood was like? Four years away could never, ever erase days, weeks, months, years of this … figuring out clues, hunting, killing, adrenaline in his veins, fear for his Dad and brother. No, Stanford didn't make him forget anything. And it especially didn't make him soft, because he – even there – kept on looking behind his back and into all the shadowy corners for monsters.

Forget? Never.

Stanford just made him see and learn about new things. About how life could be when there were no monsters and other creatures out to get you and rip out your throat. He got to know true love, he got to know how it felt like to not walk around all the time with fear stuck in his chest. He got to know how it was to love someone that wasn't family.

"No, it didn't make me forget anything. Just …"

… he just wanted to spend a day, one day not doing that. Not hunting, not killing, not thinking, just … one day. Why couldn't he just have one freakin' day?

Just this one day spend horribly drunk and in hope that next year, things would be better. Dad would be found, the thing that killed their mom would be killed, and he'd be able to go back to college. That was what 'normal' people used this day for. For making vows, plans, dreams and hopes for a better year, better lives.

But in the end, he knew Dean was right. This was what they did. This was what their whole lives had been about. Helping people, saving people, the family business. They needed to go out there, go hunt down the thing that had killed four people in this town and would kill again … they needed to kill it. Today. Now.

He just wished sometimes that … he could just have one day without seeing brain matter getting splashed on the walls, or getting guts on his favorite shirt, or getting chocked to near death, or getting shot, or sliced. Just one day.

He breathed in and straightened up his back. This was what they did. This was their life and whining wasn't gonna change that. And it wasn't gonna get Jess back. Nothing would ever get Jess back. What was dead, was dead. Only memories remained.

"Sammy..."

It never ceased to amaze him just how much his brother could say with one word. Just … one … word.

"It's Sam and yeah, okay. 'm in. Lets go."

And he was in. With his body and soul he was in because being out, could have dire consequences. Like more people dying.

Like Dean getting hurt.

He tied his shoes and waited for Dean to finish tying his own.

"Ready to kill some witches?"

"Was born ready."

A tiny, tiny flicker of a thought appeared in Sam's mind … maybe, maybe Dean really had been born ready.

-:-

The night in winter came fast, damn fast, because winter was funny like that - first it shoved the bright, white, pristine snow up in your face and then fucked you up with darkness at freakin' four in the afternoon.

"Man, point that flashlight to the ground. I can't see anything."

"Yeah, yeah stop whining."

It was dark. Dark. And it was only in the middle of the afternoon and they couldn't afford two flashlights, because even one was too much, because they could get spotted and then what? The hunt would go downhill faster than they could scream and wouldn't that be fun.

But at least they didn't have to trudge through knee high snow to get to where they wanted. Small mercies.

All they had to do was trudge through black darkness and the air smelling of snow, teasing them and making them uneasy. Because if that elusive snow storm would come right now, they were so screwed. Stuck in the woods, with only their flashlight and a duffel full of weapons.

At least the wind eased up a bit; the icicles were replaced with a soft, cold caress, which in Sam's book was a great improvement. His knuckles were already dry and all but split open from the cold.

When Dean's hand dropped heavily on his forearm, Sam froze and looked at his brother, who only pointed straight ahead.

Sam squinted and saw.

A cabin in the woods. He smiled remembering Dean rolling his eyes and bitch about 'how cliché' when they put together all the pieces of the puzzle and figured out what, where, who, how and why.

A witch.

In the nearby woods in a cabin.

One Mrs. Buternits.

With spells and curses that turned four people inside out.

Jealousy.

It all felt like a really horrible version of Clue.

But there it was, the cabin looking really pretty and peaceful. But they both knew that peace was always only an illusion and that behind those walls, evil lives. True evil, a woman who lives with darkness, making deals with demons. Killing people.

There were some plants on the windows, a porch with a rocking chair, and lights on in at least three rooms. The whole cabin looked like it was inviting them in for tea and cookies. There were even some Christmas lights on one of the windows, flickering in blue and green.

Sam nodded and stayed silent when Dean put his finger to his own lips.

They knew what to do, had a plan, had their weapons, all they needed to do was to get in there and kill her.

Easy like pie.

Except when it all turned out to be harder than moving a cement block.

She spotted them – of course she did, because the darkness and only one flashlight between them, made them as stealthy as a hoard of elephants – and they had to hide in between the walls.

The walls.

Where there were spiders scattering in every which way on their tiny, thin legs, cobwebs decorating every damn surface available, animal feces on the ground and … bones. Little bones, big bones, animal bones, human bones.

"At least now we know where she hid the rest of the bodies." Dean whispered while bending down awkwardly in the tight space and picking up a femur.

"Where are you, rodents?"

Her voice was shaky, age making it sound like a screech.

At first they weren't sure if 'rodents' applied to them or to actual rodents – she was a witch, anything was possible – but then they figured out that it was them, who were, indeed, rodents.

"Here, little mice, here, here, come out, come out wherever you are."

She was nuts and Dean whispered that to Sam, who just rolled his eyes and tried not to sneeze when dust flakes flew into his nose.

"Rats! You rats will lose your long, thin tails and your beady little eyes! I will chop them down and cook them all nice and soft. Come out, come out!"

She sing-songed and turned her hunched back to them, looking into the room instead of the wall.

There was soft light coming to them - through all the tiny spaces between the wood planks - from a fireplace that was burning right opposite of where they were hiding. It allowed them to see everything.

Dean turned to Sam and made the universal sign for 'what a crazy bitch' with his finger. Sam smirked, because there really was nothing else to add to that. She was insane. All the years spend hand in hand with darkness and the creatures from Hell, made her go crazy.

They knew the feeling, because years and years of hunting down the thing that killed their mom … made them a bit crazy too.

"Come out and play, little mice."

Dean rolled his eyes and had enough of this. No witch would call him a mouse or a rat or any other kinda rodent. The wacko witch had to go.

He thanked whoever was wherever that the wall was thin and wooden so that when he hit it with the femur, it cracked and came down like a stack of brittle cards.

-:-

Mrs. Buternits was an old, gray haired, very short, very wrinkly woman with her thin lips painted blood red and her eyelids shaded with baby blue. But she had spells and curses up her sleeves that made her powerful and tall. And the courage packed into that small, wrinkly package made Sam howl with pain when she screamed a spell at him that made him fall to the floor catching his breath, but not succeeding in capturing it.

But in the end she went down, because Dean had been born to do this. Born to kill whoever, whatever, hurt his little brother. He had been born to protect and not mind that he was killing a 'sweet, old lady, wouldn't hurt a fly' as the locals had described dear, old – now dead – Mrs. Buternits.

"No one calls me a mouse, lady."

She didn't dissolve into a puddle of water – or green goo – she just fell to the wooden floor, with eyes wide open and her mouth still stretched into a curse she was spewing at his brother.

He didn't look at her when he hurried to Sam's side. He didn't pay her any attention, didn't even think about her when he crouched by Sam's side and tried to catch his little brother's eyes.

He did burn her body though. Along with the cabin.

Because what she had been doing, killing all those people, hurting – cursing – Sam, she didn't deserve anything less.

**TBC...**


	2. Chapter 2

"Okay, Sam. 's okay buddy. Just hang on."

The air was crisp, one could cut it with a blunt knife and it would crunch under the blade like burned toast.

"Come on, man."

Their breaths were white clouds in the air, his a little bigger than Sam's, because Sam couldn't exhale big enough breaths to make a dent in the steam coming out of Dean's mouth.

They were stumbling on the uneven forest ground; piles of leaves, dead branches, stones, rocks and boulders lying in their way like it was the forest's desire to give them as much trouble as possible. He just wanted to take his little brother away from there, away from the sting of the cold air, away from the oppressive smell of nearby snow, away from the smoke rising from the witch's cabin at their backs.

"Sam, come on."

He was talking nonsense, just something to pass the time, something to fill in the silence of the woods in the dark. There were no animals to be heard, there were no comforting sounds of summer that always made the forest not so gloomy. There was just the rustling of dead leaves when they crunched beneath their boots, heavy thuds of tree trunks rubbing against each other in the wind, tiny twigs bare of life and spruce needles getting tangled in their hair. The smell of snow was intoxicating in the air, tickling their nostrils; it was so close, so close Dean could taste it on his lips, feel it on his bare hands where he was gripping his brother tight.

"You're gonna be fine, man."

They were both breathless by now; Dean from hauling his heavy brother through the wet, slippery forest ground, maneuvering around big moss covered boulders and tree trunks that came out of nowhere like stealthy ninjas ready to attack with their solid mass. And Sam … from almost convulsing while trying to breathe, dragging his long legs behind his body, relying on Dean to drag him along.

Sam was hunched over, his face almost touching the ground; his right arm was around Dean's shoulder, gripping the back of his jacket with white knuckles, his right side connected to Dean's left like they were glued together and nothing was to pass between them.

Dean looked up at the sky; bright gray clouds over a white, almost full moon. No fog and no snow … small mercies that meant the world, because they had to walk a mile and a bit to the car and safe haven. He didn't wanna imagine how this walk would've gone if there was a shit load of snow and thick fog to get through.

Someone was on their side today. Someone at least made sure they had some light guiding them.

The cabin was still burning behind their backs; smoke rising high up to the sky, flames devouring the wooden structure like hot water eating through sugar. He called the fire department – he wanted to burn down the cabin, not the whole forest - and the firemen would come soon and put it out, but not too soon, because all the woman's books and jars of ingredients had to burn nice and properly into a crispy ash, before the firemen could put the fire down.

Dean was sure everything would be okay. Everything had to be okay, because he couldn't worry about that now. All his brain and heart functions were getting together to meet in one focal point – Sam. That was all that mattered right then.

Sam.

Sam and his sharp intakes of air, that made his own chest hurt. He couldn't even imagine how Sam was feeling.

Damn witches!

The only bright spot in all of this fiasco was that the curse had been made by a dying witch; she was dead and curses usually broke – after a couple of hours, usually when one day died and the other got born - when the one who made them died.

Yeah.

Those were the rules. Or those were the rules when he was growing up and he was pretty damn sure that all that hadn't changed yet, because he wasn't that old. He was twenty-six and the world of magic probably hadn't gone to hell – no pun – since the last time he dealt with a witch.

Magic was constant, it had rules and books that couldn't be re-written just with a snap of one's finger. They were ancient, not easily changed, not easily disregarded with a flip of one's wrist.

And rules were on their side.

They just had to get through this. Sam had to get through this and he … he'd always stand by his brother's side.

That was a rule too. Not ancient, just twenty-two years old, but it was as solid as all other magical rules.

"Come on, buddy, come on."

-:-

The air was cold. It was so, so cold and there wasn't enough of it. The woods had apparently been sucked of all air, the cold must have made it into ice … every breath burned down his sensitive throat. He couldn't breathe through his nose, that wasn't enough … and his mouth was burning and he couldn't feel it anymore, he had no tongue, he had no teeth, he had no lungs.

Jess …

He wanted to pull her towards himself, she'd give him air, she always gave him sweet, sweet air … but there was no more Jess. Forever.

He was stuck now; stuck in this space of no air, breathing through a straw, chocking while hands of his destiny held him by his neck, squeezing the last particles of oxygen from his body.

Jess …

He stumbled on something; he couldn't feel his legs, they felt like stumps that he couldn't move, he wanted to move them, but he couldn't. The only thing he was aware of was his fingers all but breaking while holding onto his brother's jacket.

"Come on, man."

He stumbled again, on something invisible, on something that made the stumps of his legs all twisted around, two left feet …

" _Come on, Sam, let's go dance."_

" _Jess, I have two left feet."_

" _No matter. Sam, come on."_

"Sam, come on."

Dean …

He gasped in a breath and gurgled: "D'n."

"Yeah buddy, don't talk, just keep walkin'."

He felt arms, hands tighten their hold and pull him forward, pull him closer to a soft wall of jacket, shirt, skin and he moved on.

Dean …

He wanted to say his brother's name again, but he couldn't fill his lungs up enough to speak. He wanted to stop walking, because _that_ was making him need more air, air that was nowhere.

He pulled on the collar of his jacket and shirt, trying to tug it away from his throat, because everything felt like it was strangling him. Everything was like a vice tight grip around his neck and he was gonna die.

He could hear himself gasp even through the roar of blood in his ears. His head was pounding, his heart was a wild beast in his heaving chest and he … whined.

"Okay, man, almost there."

There, had better be a place with lots of good, fresh, warm air and nowhere to move, because this wasn't fun.

This had never been fun. This was exactly why he loved the apple pie life, as his brother called it. White picket fence, two-point-one kids, and a wife. Safe.

Jess…

Not having his brother drag him through a forest, in the dark, with air so cold, he wasn't feeling his body anymore. Not being cursed by a damn witch.

That wasn't an apple pie life.

But then again, they weren't made for an apple pie life. Their dad made sure of that. The thing that killed mom, made sure of that.

He hunched forward, trying to escape his brother's tight grip, but Dean … Dean was a stubborn asshole that would never let him fall. Never let him out of his arms.

Dean …

His brother was the only one, who made his life bearable. The only one. Until he met Jess.

Jess…

He pulled in enough air to scream hoarsely.

-:-

"Sam? Sam!?"

His stubborn asshole of a little brother was trying to weasel his way out of his hold, what the hell? What the hell? Sure, yeah they hadn't slipped into who they had been before Sam left for Stanford, but trying to get away from him, from his help? That was … that had never happened before.

"Sam, I gotcha."

He wasn't sure if his brother heard him or not but when Sam screamed, albeit a bit like he had been eating gravel the whole day long, made him loose the grip he had on Sam and they'd both probably have fallen to the ground if his hold hadn't been tight and strong.

"Sam, come on!"

He wished for their Dad to be here, he'd know what to do, would probably not 'allow' the witch to do this in the first place and would probably had Sam in the Impala and on their way to the motel fifteen minutes ago.

He wished for their Dad to be safe. And alive.

"Come on, man."

He adjusted his grip and pushed the 'ignore your little brother's struggles for breath' button in his head. Sam's head was hanging down, every few steps his right cheek would thump on his chest, hitting the amulet and pushing the horns right into his skin, but … that was a small pain compared to what his kid brother was going through.

The wheezes for air were getting louder, stronger, more frantic.

"Just a few more steps, Sam."

And then there she was. Waiting patiently like so many times before. The only thing that would never fail them. That had never failed them.

-:-

The drive back to town wasn't fun. It was horrible and Dean wanted to lock it up in the deepest corners of his mind, threw away the key and never ever go close to it.

Sam was like an asthmatic going through the most intense attack, but an asthmatic could get a cure, something to ease the attack, while Sam couldn't. There was no cure.

Just time.

-:-

He opened the motel door, letting it bang against the wall, because he had his hands full and the wall could go fuck itself. He knew he made a dent in there and would probably have to pay for that, but they weren't your usual guests so … the dent would stay there, unpaid.

They'd be out of town before anyone would notice anything.

"Okay, man, come on."

He pulled Sam forward, into the still warm room, letting the coldness of outside seep in through the open door.

Cold wasn't an issue. Sam was.

"Come on, bed."

He pushed his brother on the bed, letting Sam curl into himself on the nice, soft mattress.

"No, come on, jacket off, dude."

He was already pulling on the thick sleeves of Sam's jacket, not paying attention on how his little brother's arms were shaking.

"Good, other arm."

Sam was like an obedient child … all the while fighting for breath with short puffs.

"Damn witches, damn them."

He mumbled while walking to the still open door - dropping his and Sam's jackets on the table on his way - and closing them with a bang, rattling the door frame with the force. But he didn't care. He flipped on the light, illuminating the room with bright, flickering light, because the bulb was on its way to the grave and was giving away its last spasms of light.

He had dust from the wooden wall in his hair, probably some spider webs too, if Sam's hair was anything to go by, he smelled of smoke and gasoline and he felt drained of energy now that the adrenaline had come and gone. He felt frustrated and guilty and just so damn sad when he turned around and looked at his baby brother.

"Dehhhg..."

Sam gasped with one hand around his neck and the other reaching out, into empty space. The way he was struggling to breathe - writhing, his face red like a lobster, his neck strained, veins and muscles bulging out and his eyes that didn't know if they should be open or closed, each blink making tears run down his cheeks – it made Dean hurt deep in his chest.

He left out a long breath and felt guilty that he could do that, while Sam couldn't.

"Yeah, 'm right here, right here."

He washed his hands down his face, rubbed his mouth twice – left, right – and then that little thing he liked to call 'take care of your brother' snapped inside of him and he let it take control.

He always let it take control, because that 'thing' in his brain – heart – knew exactly what to do, knew exactly what his brother needed and he was always damn careful to make it rule over his hands and mouth, his touches and his words.

His dad activated that 'thing' when he put his baby brother into his arms and said to take his brother outside as fast as he could and to not look back.

He did that and had been taking care of Sam since then and never looked back.

So, okay.

He crossed the space between the door and the bed Sam was currently rocking back and forth on, like a crazy man without meds, and carefully sat down.

The covers were all turned and twisted around, half on and half off the bed, the sheet was stained with yellowness that he hoped was just age, and his mouth twisted into a grimace when he touched his little brother's knee.

Sam was a big ball of tension; all his muscles were locked tight, his mouth open wide, catching air where there was none, his hands were squeezing the sheet and then releasing, his eyes were wet and blinking rapidly.

He had to end this. Somehow he had to get through to his brother and tell him to take it easy, or else he'd either have a heart attack or pass out. The former was a bad, bad thing, while the latter … the jury was still out on that one.

"Okay, okay, Sam, Sam, Sammy, look at me! Come on, eyes on me! Eyes on me little brother."

It was like a physical shock, like being electrocuted and then left to flap around like a fish out of water, when Sam's eyes met his. His brother was listening to him, trusting him, needing him … he could do this. He had done this so many times in the past, when they were kids, Sam had always trusted him, seek him out, needed him.

This was just like old times and he was good at old times.

"Okay, okay, listen, you _can_ breathe you just need to relax, okay, Sam?" You need to caaaaaalm down, get yourself under control and then it won't feel like this, alright? Can you do that?"

When Sam shook his head _no_ and gripped Dean's shoulder so tight, Dean thought the bone would shatter underneath the force, anybody else would feel a pang of hurt at his little brother not doing as he was told, but not Dean. Sam was stubborn, he was made to question and doubt and question some more. Everything. The kid had a million questions about everything and needed answers and needed to calculate things in his brain before he deemed them worthy.

"Sammy, come on. Listen to me, just calm down, okay? You do that, and you'll be able to catch enough air. I promise, I promise, okay."

He could feel the words taste bitter on his tongue, he wasn't used to comforting people like this, wasn't used to speak words that literally made shivers run up and down his back. But this was Sam. This had always been different. Strangers, he doesn't care, he knows he has no finesse with strangers, but Sam. He has all the finesse in the world.

Sam shook his head again and that stung a little, but he'd not give in that easily.

"Sammy…"

The way his brother looked at him, all ice and 'shut up, idiot, I physically can't do what you're asking me to do' made him smirk.

Sam. He hadn't changed one bit. Stanford hadn't taken his little brother out of Sam.

"Sammy, come on…"

He felt Sam squeeze his shoulder even more and he tightened his grip on Sam's knee and ignored the small, clear tear that ran out of Sam's left eye when the kid exhaled, stopped and inhaled.

"Yeah, that's it."

Exhale, stop, inhale.

Slowly.

And then Sam started to cough until his whole body started to shake.

"Sam!"

His brother just shook his head and hid his face into the pillow, hugging his middle and coughing like his life depended on it. In some crazy way, his life did depend on this.

He waited a little bit, for the coughing fit to ease up and to see if Sam would pass out or remain conscious.

"Dhhh…"

"Sam…" he put his hand on his brother's back, hissing when all he felt was tense muscles as hard as a wall and shook, "… dude, come on, lets try again. You gotta trust me here, man. Come on. Get your face out of the pillow and just breathe."

"C'n't breeeh ... 'n't ..."

"Yeah you can, come on."

He leaned forward a little when Sam slowly turned around on his back and stared up at the ceiling.

"Calm down and breathe."

It took a while for his brother to actually calm down and take a full breath, and then he coughed so hard again, Dean was afraid he'd cough up a lung.

"Fuckin' witches, 'm telling ya," he shook his head, "I hate 'em. Hate 'em so much."

Sam was a gasping, shaky, sweaty presence beside him on the bed, his baby brother's lungs struggling to catch some air, but Dean knew that the curse wouldn't let go for a while yet. Maybe it would go away at midnight, these things usually did, and the witch – as powerful as she was – was already half dead when she uttered the curse, so …

… he had to hold on to that, otherwise he'd go crazy.

"Sam, just... relax okay?"

"Cn't..."

"Look man, you gotta trust me and just relax. You aren't gonna die, okay? That's off the list, but you need to calm down and breathe."

"Deee-ean."

"'m right here, not goin' anywhere ..."

And he wasn't. He didn't know what to do, he couldn't help his brother breathe, he couldn't physically pump air into Sam's lungs – well he could, but that would require a lot of stuff, stuff he couldn't get his hands on right then, but if it would come to that, he'd go rob a hospital in a heartbeat.

They would just have to wait this out.

Sam wasn't dying. It wasn't that kinda curse. It was – from what he understood the witch whisper, and he wasn't exactly all that fluent in witch mutterings – a curse that made Sam's lungs kinda the size of a rat's. But because she didn't complete the curse, he figured that Sam's lungs were like he was only using half of their capacity. Breathing through a straw, kinda deal. At least that's what he imagined.

Damn witch and her obsession with rodents. Crazy ass bitch.

Exhale, stop, inhale.

Exhale, stop, inhale.

Exhale, stop, inhale.

The bulb died with a soft _ping_ and drowned the room in darkness, just when Sam was finally getting the hang on this 'calm, breathe, relax' thing.

"Damn it."

Dean leaned forward to turn on the small lamp on the night stand that cast a light so soft it only reached the end of Sam's bed. The rest of the room was in darkness.

"Awesome."

He looked down at his brother and how his struggles for air intensified until Sam's lips were turning almost blue, his eyes getting wild and scared, his face covered in tears and snot and spit and sweat. His neck was strained, veins pushing out through the skin, Adam's apple bobbing up and down, as if it was trying to escape the ruthless gulps for breath.

"Sam?"

He was scared now. He was seriously starting to become terrified, because Sam was panicking now, he wasn't calming down, and panicking meant hyperventilation and that meant passing out and that … the jury was still out on that, because while passing out never amounted to anything good, maybe … just maybe …

"Sammy?"

"C..nt…"

His brother was sitting up in bed now, back straight like someone shoved a rod in his spine, his hands wrapped around his throat like he was choking himself now and the noises coming from his open mouth made Dean hiss in sympathy.

"Sammy, Jesus, come on man, calm down. Calm down, calmdowncalmdown! Come on!"

He gripped his brother by his forearms, holding tight; it was like holding onto a living, moving branch, where the bark was skin and the grooves in the bark were veins. He was able to feel everything.

But his asshole of a little brother shook his head _no_ and sucked in some more air that obviously wasn't enough. It never had been enough. And it would never be enough until the curse would go away.

Damn witch!

And while that thought was running through his head, Sam lost it and he'd never be able to erase _that_ from his mind. How a light flashed in Sam's eyes, some kind of a 'I've got it' moment. It figured, even when Sam was half on his death bed, his brain was still working with full capacity. He was like a nuke … even when it was waste, it was still dangerous like hell.

"Sam?"

He asked, but it was a question spoken to empty space because Sam was already half way into his leap from the bed. It only took him two long steps towards the nearest wall to start banging his head against it. Hard. Real hard.

For a second or two, he could only watch - stunned and glued to the bed – his little brother, his baby brother bang his head, forehead first against the wall. Against the wall. His head. Hard.

What the…

"Sam, what the hell!? What the hell?"

He rolled across the bed to the other side and stumbled over a pair of Sam's sneakers and made it to Sam's side in point two seconds. He pulled at Sam's shoulders, arms, but his brother was a strong son of a bitch, especially when he got something in his head. He was like a dog with a bone, growling and snapping his teeth when someone tried to take it away.

"Sam, stop it!"

He yelled and had to actually grab Sam by his waist, hands meeting at Sam's bellybutton and tug his brother away from the wall.

A wall with blood on it.

Great. A dent and blood. Oh, this motel's owner was gonna lose some sleep over this.

"Sammy, Jesus, what the hell, man?"

He turned Sam around, got a good look at the bleeding forehead – skin split open and hopefully there would be no scar – and somehow managed to shuffle them to the bed.

He threw his – now panting, heaving, choking – brother on the bed and he'd smile at the little bounce his idiot of a brother did when his body hit the mattress, if that idiot of a little brother hadn't been bleeding and hadn't just tried to make a hole in the wall.

"What the hell, man?"

He was pissed. He was angry, because, well, what the hell?

"D'nn…"

The attempt at suicide left Sam almost completely out of air and he was fighting for breath with short, sharp gulps, but still had enough strength to reach out for his brother.

This time his hand didn't meet emptiness.

"What man?"

He grabbed Sam's hand and if this situation wasn't so serious, he'd laugh about what a girl Sam was to wanna hold hands. But this situation was serious, it was deadly serious, because Sam was suffering, he was in pain, he was scared and terrified and panicking.

"What?"

He sat down close to his brother again and felt completely out of his depth. This wasn't something he had ever dealt with. Not with having to watch Sam struggle like this, having to watch him hurt like this, hurt so bad with no respite coming. Not until all of this would end, which could take some time still. A couple of hours.

"Sammy…"

"Ghhh…"

When Sam fell forward and started to bang his bloody forehead on his shoulder, just like he did with the wall, Dean got it. The light bulb in his brain turned on with a snap and he got it. It seemed like the jury had decided.

He took Sam's arms in his hands and pulled him away from his shoulder – another shirt with a blood stain, awesome – searching his eyes, searching his face and through all that wetness and hisses of breath he saw.

They were on the same wave length. And it felt so good. It felt so good that they hadn't lost this, this feeling of connection, of speaking without speaking.

Stanford didn't take little brother out of his little brother. How could it? How could four years erase eighteen years of sharing the same space? Or sharing everything?

"You want me to knock you out? You sure?"

"Mh…."

It hurt. When his fist connected with Sam's face. The contact didn't hurt, the 'I just hurt my little brother' hurt. It was agony he felt deep in his chest when Sam fell back, his head hitting the pillow, his wet hair spreading out over the white fabric … and his breathing calming down, relaxing into something resembling normal.

Sometimes his brother was the biggest stupidly smart bastard ever.

He didn't know just how much he had missed that, while Sam was at Stanford. One never misses something, until that something is gone.

"You damn idiot."

Because as smart as Sam was, he just made himself bleed all over his face. But he also made himself calm down and breathe without panicking.

"You're such a moron, kiddo."

He whispered while arranging the soft, overcooked noodles like limbs on the bed.

"You have issues, buddy."

Sam scared him half to death with that little act, but Sam was wicked smart and he figured out how to make himself semi-okay. And he gave permission to that jury in Dean's head to stop thinking so hard and just go for it.

And maybe he would be able to sleep like this until the curse would run its course. Because he was breathing now; not gasping, or writhing, or _crying_ , or sucking in air through a straw.

He was sleeping, resting, looking like a child.

A bleeding child.

He shook his head. He'd need some bandages.

-:-

How many times had he done this? How many times had he sat like this before? Vigilant. Awake. Worried. His stomach shaking from worry over his little brother.

Too many and he was sure that this was most definitely not his last time.

He moved the heavy, red drape away from the window, the snow outside falling heavily and steady, no sign of easing up and slowing down. Not soon anyway. The snow finally came, silently, just … sneaked up from nowhere, while Sam had been happy in dream land. It wasn't a snow storm, just your ordinary snow. He briefly wondered if he could make a complaint to the local TV station, because the information they were providing clearly sucked.

The white blanket of snowflakes gliding through the air was making the lights the motel owner wrapped around a lamp post in the parking lot look muted. All colors of the rainbow and then some were all blurry through the snow and he sighed.

Damn.

Damn snow.

He was stuck in the room with his baby freezing outside, covered with snow and his baby brother wheezing his way through a curse on the bed.

He let the drape fall back, hiding the lights and only allowing the little bedside lamp to illuminate the room.

"Hey Sammy…" he whispered when he looked at his brother sitting up in bed; back resting against the headboard, his whole body contorted in pain of still not being able to suck enough air into his starving lungs.

Sam had woken up about half an hour or so ago - screaming for Jess - from his forced unconsciousness and tried to go back to the wall again, but Dean had stopped him. The curse would go away soon, it had to, only a few more minutes if Pastor Jim was correct about this. He had called Pastor, just to confirm that the rules hadn't changed. They hadn't. And they weren't rules, as Pastor Jim explained. And when the man asked what exactly did the witch say, what the case was about and he explained what he remembered, Pastor Jim sighed and his voice became that of a priest giving sermon when he explained to Dean, all soft and sure, what the witch was really doing.

Oh. Oh, how wrong they've been. Oh. Oh, fuck then.

It hadn't been a fun phone call, but it had been enlightening.

-:-

He tapped the table a few times with his fingers and stood up from the chair, walking slowly towards the bed.

"How you doin' there, kiddo?"

He kept his voice low, in a whisper, because the last time he spoke too loud – or too fast – Sam freaked, which send him into a five minutes long gasping fit that ended with him coughing again.

They agreed – well, Dean agreed, Sam just nodded his agreement – that from then on, Dean would whisper and always announce his presence.

It wasn't as if Sam didn't know he was there, or that Sam was scared of him talking out loud … it was just the curse. And the lack of oxygen.

But the curse would fade soon, just a couple more minutes and then Sam would be his jolly giant self and business would move on as usual.

But until then … this was what they had.

Sam trying his best to breathe and to keep calm for a few more minutes and Dean trying his best to let that happen and not panic and go outside to try and kill the goddamn witch three more times just for the old time sake.

"You doin' okay?"

He didn't expect an answer – not really, not with words anyway – because Sam rerouted all his strength and brain power into breathing. Speaking was something he couldn't afford. Not if he wanted to breathe.

-:-

And Sam wanted to breathe and stay conscious, but being unconscious made him not hurt while filling up his lungs. Being unconscious made him see Jess, be with her, talk with her, hold her.

But … she was dead and when he woke up, it just hurt more.

While Dean … he was real and he was there, in the room, by his side and he wanted to spend this day with his brother. He wanted this day to mean something.

Well he got that wish. Because this day certainly was special and it totally made them both spend it together.

He just … didn't want a curse to _make_ them be together today.

-:-

He sat down on the bed, next to his brother's constantly moving legs – up the bed covers, down the bed covers, as if that would pump more air into Sam's lungs – and put his hand over his brother's right knee.

He squeezed, making Sam still his movements.

"Hey man…"

Sam looked at him. Dean wished he hadn't.

Sam's eyes were filled with tears. He wasn't crying, that wasn't it, it was just the fear, the panic, the terror of feeling your body needing air, needing oxygen, but you just couldn't provide it with it. It was pain from trying to breathe, trying to fill up your lungs, trying to ease the burn, but just couldn't.

His brother's face was pale, but his cheeks had two dots of pink on them. And it was wet from all the tears Sam couldn't stop. Didn't want to stop, not anymore, not after trying to do so a few times, but the tears came back and he realized – they both realized – that things were just going to have to be like that.

He tightened his hold on Sam's knee and shook it a little: "Yeah, I know buddy. Just … take it easy."

He saw in Sam's eyes, that his brother wanted to scream at him to _shut up and stove the crappy advice_ , but at the same time the _Dean_ was there too.

"'s snowing outside."

"Mhh…'kay."

"'s almost midnight."

"mmmhmm…"

It was a lousy conversation, but … the silence was worse, because it wasn't silence at all, but the sound of his baby brother wheezing and gasping and coughing and keening.

"Just a few more minutes, Sam."

"Mhhhm…"

Yeah, just, he looked at his watch, three more minutes.

And then if Sam wouldn't get better, then they'd go onto plan B.

But that wasn't gonna happen, because magic had rules. It had rules, damn it. Even if Pastor Jim didn't call them that.

-:-

This wasn't how this day was supposed to have been. Not like this. Not with this splitting headache and with his heart racing like it was trying to win a thousand sprints all at once, not with his vision blurred with tears that he couldn't stop. He wanted to stop them, because he wasn't sure that they were only from the lack of oxygen.

He kept his eyes on his brother, needed a focus point in all the blurriness he was seeing, needed to center himself among all the white-black spots exploding before his eyes. And his brother was just there. Close. As he had been throughout their childhood. The focus point. The center of the universe.

Maybe … maybe now … they could have that again.

But no. They weren't kids anymore, even if Dean still acted like one sometimes. They were grown up now, they were older, they both had their own lives at some point, different experiences. They could never be what they were when they had been kids.

But they still needed each other. That'd never change. Just the need would have a different flavor.

He sucked in a long, deep breath that made him shudder and cough.

He could feel Dean let go of his knee and he panicked. He didn't want Dean to go away, he didn't want his brother to disappear from his – limited – line of vision, he didn't want for the strength he could feel coming from Dean in waves to go away and leave him alone, cold and breathless.

"D…uh.."

"'m here man, right here, okay?"

No, it wasn't okay. He lost mom, he lost Jess, Dad was lost, Dean … he couldn't lose Dean too. He couldn't. He couldn't lose his big brother too.

A noise sneaked up from deep within his chest, a sound he hadn't made since he was a child – a sob.

He couldn't stifle it. He couldn't swallow it down. He couldn't stop it before it came out of his mouth and scrunched up his face and made his eyes close.

"Sam …"

Dean heard. He saw. And now he knew that the tears running down his face weren't just from the lack of oxygen and struggles to breathe.

They were from grief and fear and loss so painful, he couldn't stop them. They just tore right through him and left him feeling weak and exhausted and he fell.

Right onto Dean.

His forehead crashing with Dean's chest hurt, but the pain was nothing compared to the swirls of it trying to collapse his chest.

"Sammy …"

He sobbed again and raised up his hands to clutch at his brother's shirt. It was the only thing he had the courage to touch.

-:-

Dean didn't hug. Not much anyway. He didn't comfort with touching. There were words that told plenty and had a better effect than hugs and touches.

But his little brother … he'd do anything for the kid. Anything.

And even if Sam falling onto him was a surprise that took his own breath away, because baby brother was heavy as a tree, he couldn't push him away.

"Sam…"

Sam's hair was drenched with sweat, wet and smelling of shampoo and _Sam_ – long drives in the backseat of the Impala sleeping curled around each other through the darkest of nights, shoving Legos into the vents, cramming an army man into the ashtray, carving their initials into the Impala, Sam running away to Flagstaff, burning down the field in ninety-six, learning how to shoot, learning how to kill, being a mother and a father and a brother to each other, fighting with each other, fighting for each other …

"'s okay, 's okay, Sam."

Nothing was okay, nothing had ever been okay, but they fought their way through everything – every hour, every day of their lives had been a struggle to survive and they made it.

And Dean was goddamn sure Sam would make it through this too. He wasn't stupid, Sam could never fool him, could never erect walls high enough for him not to peek over or find a crack to peek through.

This was about Jess. The witch saw a huge red blinking light that was spelling _Jess_ inside of Sam and she latched onto that loss, onto that pain and wanted to make Sam suffer even more. She could've latched onto him and the loss he felt about mom or Dad, but Jess was fresher, not hidden enough, a wound that was still oozing pus.

Damn witches. He understood her curse wrong. This wasn't about making Sam's lungs smaller, this was about his grief – and love - spilling over the brim and making him lose his breath.

Damn witches.

He had dealt with grief and loss – in the line of business that he was, it was really hard not to – and picked up things here and there, stuff he saw in survivors, stuff he heard along the way, stuff he noticed and grief … grief could steal away your breath and leave you a convulsive mess craving air to come back. But what most people didn't know was that, when that air, that breath comes back it brings with it pain. It brings with it agony and misery that most people overcome, but apparently the witch hadn't. The pain turned her into a bitter, miserable, evil person that turned the pangs of pain into spells and curses and murder.

Damn witches! That bitch!

And Sam … Sam had been the perfect target. He had a huge, huge sign on his forehead that was flashing in every color imaginable – Jess.

"Sam…"

He wanted to say that he was sorry. He … they didn't know this about the witch. They thought she was turning people inside out of jealousy, when it fact it was out of grief. They had it all wrong. They made a mistake, he made a mistake, and Sam paid for it.

Fuck! Fuck! Bitch!

His brother let out a sob and gripped his shirt tighter, crawled closer.

He leaned his chin on the top of Sam's bowed head and closed his eyes. He … wanted to give Sam privacy. They never had any real privacy while growing up, everything they ever did, the other found out about it sooner or later, but this felt different.

This was Sam and Jess. It was something he didn't feel he should be a part of, didn't feel like he belonged, like he should pry and watch his brother fall apart.

But it was still his baby brother crying his soul out.

He squeezed his eyes shut even tighter and let his arms go around his brother's sides, one hand on Sam's nape, the other in the middle of Sam's back.

And it was then, that the fireworks started and Sam breathed in and in and in and not choking on the inhale.

-:-

There was Jess and then there wasn't. There was Stanford and then there wasn't. There were his friends and then there weren't. There was his escape to normal and then there wasn't. There was his apple pie life and kids and a wife and a good, honest job and then there wasn't.

There was Dean again. And the family business sucking him in again. There was Dad missing, and all his fears coming to life again.

Dad hurt. Dad dead.

Dean hurt. Dean dead.

He didn't want this. Ever. He never wanted this.

But Jess was dead. Stanford was lost. Normal was lost.

But family – he still had family.

The string of the amulet he gave Dean for Christmas so many years ago, was digging right at the spot where his forehead hurt the most. The bandage must've slipped off at some point.

The tears were cold and ticklish on his overheated cheeks and he knew he was making a mess of Dean's shirt, but he couldn't stop. And every time Dean said his name – like that, like it was the only thing he could say, like he knew it was both an anchor and a steep fall – made him cry even more. Louder. Messier.

And then the fireworks started. And he was back in ninety-six when they burned down that field for fourth of July. Except this wasn't fourth of July ninety-six and he wasn't thirteen. He was twenty-two with so much life under his belt that many of his peers would never get in their whole lifetime.

And crying … wasn't what he did. He had been raised a soldier … except that he wasn't. Not really. The soldier in the family was Dean, he was just there to tag along.

"Sammy…"

The word smashed him into pieces and broke the dam he had been working so hard and so long on. And the way Dean was holding him, so tight, a wall between him and the world that even a grenade couldn't break … he let himself sink in.

Even the _pop pop pop_ of the fireworks going on outside, didn't make him twitch or flinch.

All he felt was breath returning to his starving lungs and Dean breathing steady under his forehead.

Smelling the gasoline on Dean – fire, they were followed by fire – Jess had been on fire.

He sobbed.

Smelling Old Spice with a hint of smoke – fire, they were always followed by fire – Jess had been on fire.

He sobbed.

Smelling sweat and leather and …

… Dean

He sobbed.

There was no more Jess. There was no more Jess.

He pressed his head into his brother's chest harder, feeling his brother's heartbeat. So alive.

All he had now was his brother. All he had now was what he had four years ago. He had a life, but now it was time to return to his roots.

Hunt. Save people, help them. Kill the son of a bitch who killed his mom, who destroyed his family, who made his brother have no other life, but this one, who chased away his Dad, who killed the love of his life.

He screamed into his brother's chest, the sharp stings of pain wrecking him, turning him inside out.

His brother only tightened his hold and pushed his fingers into his hair.

Holding tight. Never letting go. Just like this life. This life would never let him go. It never had. Those four years had only been a mirage, hope for a thirsty man.

"Sam…"

He sobbed harder, silent wails of Jess, Jess, Jess.

And Dean.

-:-

"Happy New Year, Sammy."

This was not how he imagined this day to be like. It was supposed to have been: kill the evil witch, get back to the room, drink some and then some more, watch TV and fall asleep to wake up with a hangover the next day. Like normal people do, well minus the killing.

This was not how he imagined this day to go.

-:-

The fireworks didn't last long. A couple of minutes of sound and color that only vaguely penetrated the bubble of safety they had going on.

They announced midnight and the start of New Year and then everything was silent except for shallow breathing and sniffling.

He wanted to push Sam away from the wet patch he could feel growing larger on his chest, but he didn't. He couldn't. He'd do anything for his brother, anything, and then never speak of it again.

They'd bury this night into the deepest corners of their minds and throw away the key. It happened, now let's forget about it and move on, was what their code was.

No one saw this happen, no one heard it happen, no one would ever find out about this, the room was the sole witness and it wouldn't speak of this.

It would probably be awkward in the morning, embarrassment on both sides, eyes not meeting eyes, stilled conversation, but that would end after breakfast, because they both knew – things like these, stay between them. Stay hidden from outsiders, because outsiders were just that – out, not in and they had no right to know.

There were no words to safely break the silence and the sniffling, so he just held on. Tight in fear that maybe, just maybe if he'd let go of Sam, Sam would say ''m gonna go back to college, I can't do this' and then go.

He couldn't let him go. Not again.

-:-

Dean was warm. And strong. And steady even in the midst of panic. He was the one who wouldn't make all of this awkward. Even more awkward than it already was. He would be the one who would act as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn't just wept all over Dean's chest, as if he hadn't wailed, mumbling for Jess. He would be the one who would make this night never to be spoken of, but still acknowledged.

Dean was an awesome jerk like that.

"Sucks." He sniffled into the air when he raised himself off of the wet patch he made on his big brother's t-shirt.

He didn't want to spend New Year's like this. He didn't want to spend it hurt and aching and passed out half of the time. This was exactly what he ran away from when going to college.

He wanted this day to be different. A new start. Some beers and some TV and some cold pizza. And not … not this.

But, Dean was right. This was their life and he knew that there was no way to avoid it. The New Year would be exactly like the one they just left behind.

There was no way to avoid that. Not with the way their lives were.

But at least he wasn't alone. He learned a funny thing in college, something that he never thought he would learn to be honest. He learned just how lucky he was to have a brother like Dean – even if he was a jerk with bad taste in music and an unhealthy love relationship with his car - when so many people – some of his friends, his classmates, people he randomly met, talked to and moved on – had no one. Were lonely growing up, lonely in their early twenties, and would probably still be lonely when they'd be older. Some of them didn't have a family – he had a family, weird as it was – some of them didn't have siblings – or had them, but weren't close, were fighting all the time – some of them had no one to turn to when being sad, angry or just wanted to talk.

And he had that. Just one phone call away.

He wiped his face with his sleeve. That was all he could do about all of this.

And then he drew in a big breath and got angry. The son of a bitch who screwed up his life, killed Jess … was gonna go down.

Was gonna die.

-:-

Dean shook his head, huffed and gripped Sam's forearms tighter, holding his little brother up, because there was absolutely no strength left in the kid.

If what just happened was any indication of how the New Year would be for them …

He whispered: "I know, man."

At least they spend New Year's Eve with _family_ and that was more than some people got to say.

A lot more.  
  
 **The End**


End file.
